First World Problems

Sorry I’ve been away so long. You all probably think I won the lottery or changed to a better job or went on vacation with Mrs M to someplace warm and steamy, with the emphasis on “steamy.” Nope.  Not yet.  I’m still hoping because there’s still a slim chance if I buy a ticket.

I got a little advance warning on the impending crash of the wave of depression, so some of you were perceptive enough to pick up on it.  I think. I may have mentioned it. Because it sucks. Well, crash it has. I like Christmas, I just hate that I have to ride around in this semi-animated corpse pretending everything is great including me. Yeah, you’ve heard the cheer on your radios because it’s after Hallo-fucking-ween: “Voices singing let’s be jolly, fuck the halls with bouts of folly.”

Well, everything IS great, on the spreadsheet. Except finances, and my job, and my car’s check engine light, and my teeth still not fixed, and my wife and kids demanding indentured servitude without the terms of severance or the income.  Wikipedia says “The employer is often permitted to assign the labor of an indenture to a third party.” And it’s true, we have a new dog the kids have named “Scruffy,” and my labor has been assigned, on an as-needed basis, to serve “Scruffy.” And this without relief from the other duties two of my friends tease me about. They say I’m “a good wife.”

On the spreadsheet, I have a job. I have a car. I have a house. I have a family (and a dog). There is food on the table. The house has heat for winter (now) and air conditioning for summer (now).  I also have time-released amphetamines for my depression.  They keep me awake sometimes, they might help me focus a little better than the coffee.  Oh, and I have coffee, which is excellent.  Coffee is one of the best things on the plus side.  These are great on the surface. Scratch it a little (because “Scruffy” likes that).

Under the surface a little, the wisdom of another “Scruffy” shines through:



That’s right, about the time I’m ready to kick life’s ass and take its’ name, life, or my feelings, or my whatever the fuck the opposite of mania for a cyclothymic comes along with a great big rainbow of



And it IS a gray rainbow.

I thought I was done with a project and it popped its’ ugly little head up again and said, “Remember me?  Good, now prove you did everything right, all over again.” So after I half-recover from the stress of this week I get to go through all that shit all over again, prove my numbers, search for the one thing the one person wants me to find, and if I find it, figure out why the rest of my numbers worked out right, and if I don’t find it, deliver the bad news to the guy who loses $200 dollars and does not get to pass “Go.” I was very careful and I’m 96% sure I’m right.  It’s just a tiny “fuck you” from a universe full of those.  Duck, or the universe will hand you a few too.

Remind me to never volunteer for shit again.

It’s been a rough few weeks for me, not from the plus column because I’m truly grateful for everything good in life: I have good friends, three in particular who have been extremely supportive. There are people who would murder to have that kind of morale support, and their lives tear them down regularly to a point where even my bitching feels like encouragement to them. And I offer it.

Add to the plus side:  I have a car.  It runs, and it depreciates, so therefore it costs me money.  Depreciate is a big word that’s code for “shit falls apart.”    I have a house, and I like it when it’s cool in summer heat and warm in winter cold so therefore it costs me money.  I have a family that likes to eat, and I’m the biggest culprit for that.  I have a laptop computer that likes to spontaneously highlight what I’ve typed and delete it in ways Ctrl+Z won’t recover, and despite this, I still like to write.  Mrs M and the kids have their electronics, and we like Netflix too.  The stove runs on electric too, so we have a bill to pay or three there.  We also like it when the trash is carried away once a week, and we like our hot and cold running indoor plumbing.  To handle the expense of these things, I have a job.

My minus column might not be bad if it weren’t amplified by depression and loudly broadcast through a few other things. Amplifiers take the existing signal and push it up. Amplifiers are good because they boost what you can’t hear and make it audible. It’s the speakers I dislike. The minus column by itself is fine, I guess. Nothing a little humongous lottery win, or death, wouldn’t eliminate forever. (I’ve got no immediate plans for death, just in case you read closely enough to grow concerned, so the only thing left is that HUGE cash windfall. Bring it. And AMPLIFY THAT shit to 12 out of 10 on the dial.)

1-The grind – I fucking hate the grind. I have a job, but there’s no reward beyond a sub-minimal paycheck. There’s no such thing as team. There’s “I,” if you want to promote yourself like hell and there’s “they” if you want to finger point and make other people look bad in order to make yourself look better, see also, “I.” I was temporarily under another supervisor’s thumb for a week. During that week of assigned indentured servitude, I was scheduled to be in early, and I was late once. A half an hour, which I realize was my fault because I didn’t observe the schedule change, and I was in at my regularly scheduled time. And thereafter, I had two days of adjusting to a new, earlier traffic pattern when I was in the office on time but not on the clock until 3 minutes late. And because this alternate supervisor is one of the “they” people, he reported my tardiness, all six minutes over two days, which my company treats to punishment, as if I had missed an entire fucking day. The remaining two days I was early. But I have a job. Would other people murder for my job? I think not. Just so Mrs M can hold her exhaustion over my head (see below) Mrs M has to have a job because my job is shitty and pays shitty.  I’ve been there for several years and recently things have taken a turn for the decidedly worse (see above). There used to be grace, a few minutes, no big deal. But now, even though I always give a little extra in between and after just so my desk stays under control so my name and my conscience are clear too, and then try to help people get theirs done, there is only punishment and fear of more punishment, and stress, and accusation, and “I” and “they” thinking instead of mutual respect and consideration and mercy. In light of worsening weather and us getting a dog, I asked about working from home in addition to asking for a raise. Others make the same (new people) or more, others doing the same work are permitted to be home-based, but my request is denied because I didn’t jump when they originally offered it. I wasn’t ready for such a big change, and who among you with a touch of Asperger’s if they’d relish a huge change in their life.  I didn’t toe their line, when they wanted me to, and how they wanted me to, so now work is dishing out “fuck you’s” and second helpings of “fuck you’s.” I’m supposed to be grateful and ask for thirds and dessert courses of the same.

Anyone hiring, looking for a guy who just wants to come in, do good work, and go home, or better still be home, satisfied at the end of good day’s work? I don’t mind staying late or coming early if the expectations are clear. I don’t mind working hard, and I do a good job, not that anyone I work for would confess to that. I do good work because I value my name and I want my company to be profitable because if they’re profitable it’s supposed to trickle down. But no, if minimum wage is “raised,” I get a tiny “raise,” but ultimately it represents a 50% pay cut because I’ve worked hard to be almost up to the newly proposed minimum above the minimum wage and I’ve almost reached the newly proposed minimum wage because I’ve been faithful. So go ahead and raise that and knock my feet out from under me, why don’t we ask the government? But the idiots who don’t understand basic economics WANT the new minimum wage, not realizing it moves a bunch of struggling almost-middle-class people who’ve worked their asses off to earn anything close to the proposed minimum, JINGLING ALL THE WAY back down to the new poverty level. I don’t mind telling you it’s frustrating as fuck watching the idiots who want to run our country…into the pits.  Why am I despairing?  I don’t know!  (Is my sarcasm showing?)

Does the boss appreciate good work? With her lips she audibly says yes, but with her unrealistic, unmerciful expectations and her daily pittance, like some kind of Ebony  Z’You’rescrewed-ge, she screams a silent, yet somehow much louder, FUCK YOU! (Oh, yeah, just for all the citizens and illegal fucking aliens of the United States of the Too-Easily-Offended, the name is not racist, and fuck you very much if you thought it was.  Not that I should have to explain my intentions as  this is my fucking blog, I’m feminizing and characterizing the name “Ebenezer Scrooge.” You try it and see if you can do any better.) But hey, I’m accustomed to being taken for granted, which brings us to broadcaster:

2-The family—I fucking love/hate the family. If they were any more “supportive,” I might drive into oncoming traffic as fast as my crap car would go. With my luck, and with my car, I’d probably survive, which deters any such thinking pretty fast. And again, that’s not a plan. You worriers! All three or four of you.

My friends say I’m a “good wife,” and they’re right. One night I was so cold I washed dishes just so my hands would feel the hot water for a while. My children do chores only when we are angry and demanding, which sucks for parenting. “I have homework!” is a popular excuse. Among others. I do chores because I’m sick of the excuses bullshit and because Mrs M sighs and says she works so hard and doesn’t have the energy for anything more. And she doesn’t have the energy. She falls asleep hours before I do and gets up maybe 30 minutes before I do. There’s no time or energy left over for Mr. M., which is just great. Wait, is my sarcasm amplifier still on? And if there is time or energy, there’s no enthusiasm. I’m another fucking chore to sigh through and endure. And in spite of this, please cue “All I want for Christmas is You.”  The Mariah one, but pick your favorite if you have one.  I like the album one, to be honest.

Sure, she’s lovely live, have you seen those beautiful red dresses?   Of course you haven’t.  Because there are no pictures of the lovely Mrs M online, and I’m not sharing.  (I don’t mean Miss Mariah, although she’d be a hell of a catch.  That SINGING!!  Sadly, I’ve only really come to wanton, reckless desperation wanting Mrs M for Christmas (and every other day of the year) for years, since I determined she only loves me her way, not my way, and only when she feels like it. There’s certainly no joy in doing anything extra that would make Mr. M. overly happy. If I beg and plead, it’s an even worse chore, “sigh, sigh, sigh, you’re horrible and I hate you,” say all the nonverbal cues, which makes me not want to bother, which seems to fit the agenda.

And yet, she’s beautiful and pretends she means well and loves me some of the time. I just wish it seemed a bit more real all of the time and was a little more freely shared with me without the stupid dynamics that I don’t bring to the bedroom for offering the same treatment, freely, because it makes her pretend to be happy for a little while.

When she feels like pretending I’m reasonably happy and I can almost forget she’s just pretending.  It’s been more than 20 years, and I can’t exactly pinpoint when I realized she was doing that, but it really pissed me off and despite my efforts to recapture her heart, alas, I am only taken for granted and more is expected and demanded.  Fortunately I “make a good wife.”  My fucking friends are right.  But I know she’s the one I want.

This is 100% true, so far, no matter how hard I flirt online with all you fantastically hot bloggers.  You know who you are.  Yes.  You.  Fucking beautiful souls and hearts, trying to tempt me and ten percent away from succeeding…because I hide in my bunker to keep you at fingertip distances away from the true depths of my heart, once plumbed by the lovely Mariah…erm…Mrs M..

3-Because this is a list of amplifiers, I feel obligated to have a third item for my amplifier list.  I’m stressed out.  I’m discouraged.  I’m riding the wave and it’s cresting over my head.  It’s so cold in the office I can practically see my breath.  I wear layers to stay warm enough to keep working because my clients deserve good service despite the way our system and our management don’t help me.  I asked for a raise because of all the talk about raising the minimum wage nationally, also because I found out that I earn the same amount now after my years of experience as they are paying new people.  I wasn’t supposed to say anything.  I wasn’t supposed to ask, so now they are punishing me for saying something.  I’m not supposed to be upset about feeling punished, and I’m not supposed to be upset that my systems don’t work and I’m not supposed to be frustrated that my management is punishing me for little picayune things and for asking for a raise.  And I’m not supposed to be angry and convey any frustration to anyone at the office.  I’m not supposed to believe that I’m being punished.

I’m not supposed to be discouraged in life, in work, in my relationships.  I’m supposed to suck it up and be a good wife and be a good indentured servant to wife and work and family and dog and volunteer organizations.  I’m supposed to think positive.  I’m supposed to continue working and believe there’s a light at the end of the tunnel.  Well, like they say in the Metallica song, it’s “just a freight train comin’ [my] way, hey, hey.”

But indeed, I am horrible, and I earn and deserve every discouragement I get.  AND, the scary thing is, other people struggle with worse things than me.  Other people have worse dental situations, worse financial situations, worse work situations, worse relationship situations (some people are fucking physically abused, for fucks sake, by losers who should be shot to death as slowly as possible.), etc.  If I had a shred of manly courage I’d have a better job and earn enough money, and I’d also be able to fix the cars and the things around the house without routinely having a panic and rage attack when it falls apart, and wishing I had the cash to just call the guy who knows how to fix the fucking thing right the first time.

Lately it’s hair and fuck knows what else stuck in the drain pipes, and I don’t know what happened except a miracle: I’ve been able to fix that, after the panic attacks subsided and the desire to rage-quit was replaced by a strong desire to not have to pay someone to do it for me.  My teeth are still an issue.  I already need two implants, or the cheaper alternative is to have them just pulled, maybe a filling or two too.  Maybe in March I’ll get the courage and the cash to have them out, and then decide if I want to, or if I’m able to, save and spend it on myself.  I love doctors (see below) almost as much as dentists.

I can do little things, not big things like afford to put $3.5K in my face, or $700 in a doctor’s pocket for a blood test AFTER fucking insurance, or $1K into my car.  I only want to help people, and be helped in return, so the universe in all of its’ fallen glory shouts a great big FUCK YOU at me and deals the shit cards out.   I’ve taken to just calling the jerk who makes the universe suck, because I lack a more polite but accurate literary term,  an “ass hole.”  To spite the universe fucking ass hole, I decided to treat some dear people as nicely as I’m able.  You know who you are, you know I love you very dearly, and I hope what I did was practical and useful and fitting… for you, however impractical and impulsive it was for me.

Because if the universe is an ass hole to me, it’s an ass hole for others too, and if I can lash out and flip two great big birds at the universe fucker by doing something nice in spite of my situation, then that is what I want to do.  Fuck you, universe fucker.  Until you stop treating people like shit, including me, I’m going to randomly try to do nice encouraging things for people.  And if you slow down on fucking me over long enough for me to break even or get ahead, I’m going to do MORE whenever I can.  What I did was so small, but it was very significant to me

Because I keep asking a question.  I wish I knew where I should look to find a little, perhaps lingering, taste of the answer for myself, but I also ask for Mrs M and for my family, despite everything.  Maybe if I figure them out they’ll learn and eventually have enough to share.  I also ask for people I want to somehow help or encourage, in spite of the universe.  Because if I need it for myself, I know my family needs it too.  And if I frequently feel so empty, my family might feel that way too sometimes.  I know it’s true if I need it, that everyone else needs the answer, too, whether they’ll admit it or not.

When I look in the mirror I realize, even though I don’t really have a clue about how to fix very many things, I know I’m staring at a tiny part of the answer.  I don’t know what to do about work.  I still want to maintain my standards, but I’m past the point of giving half a fuck about this company and the people who have me under their thumbs and enjoy the work I do.  They seem to just be screwing with me right now so I won’t forget my proper place under their authority.  So If you know someone hiring at a decent wage for good work, I’ve done editing and proofreading and writing and research in the past and really enjoyed that.  (If I get paid, it’s not as crappy as this blog often is.)  It would be refreshing to do what I like instead of what my current employer undercompensates me for.

“Undercompensates” is a big word that means “acts in cooperation with the universe fucker to make life more difficult than it should be or needs to be.”  I think the universe fucker abuses the laws of physics and gravity and invented the contrary “laws” of relationships, to break precious things and break even more precious hearts, and cause unnecessary grief to anyone whether they can handle more shit in life or not.  Depressed?  Moi?   Fuck that, I’m busy pretending like fuck to be positive in spite of the shit dealers.  Because, for one, the boss wants me to smile while she’s fucking me over with barbed wire implements, and if I don’t like it, she wants me to pretend I do, and tell her “thank you” for the attention.  And not tell anyone about how I feel, or how it, and the tools the company gives me to try to do my job, that fail to help me fully succeed induce panic and rage.  At least I haven’t heard anything lately at church that pissed me off.  But give it time.  Christmas is when the gospel is love from God through scandal-an illegitimate child’s birth- and angels singing “comfort and joy” and “peace on earth.”  After Christmas, I’ll expect it.  If I get blindsided I might let you know.  As for Mrs M, Christmas and New Years give me a better shot at being loved how I want to be loved.  And I’ll keep trying to do the same for her.

If you don’t hear from me until then, despite how you may sometimes feel about messages either from the Bible or from some pastor (not necessarily the same original source), Merry Christmas, dear readers.  Life may not all be “tidings of comfort and joy,” but we can try to encourage each other anyway.  Like you encourage me.  And if you have a chance, be a tiny part of the answer to someone, even if it’s not very much or appreciated right now.  “This calls for patient endurance.”  But if I can do it in my tiny, insignificant way, you can do it too.  Try.  It feels really  good to flip off the universe fucker.


Yesterday I sat at work feeling numb.  I felt numb all day.  It’s not a good numb, it’s the numb of realizing that my boss and every boss before her, NEVER had my best interest in mind.  When I got a new boss, she was so nice, I wanted to believe she had my interests at heart.  I wanted to believe it so much.  I wanted to believe when I was in school, that teachers had my best interests in mind.  But only one of my teachers ever encouraged my writing.

When I graduated and tried to work in my hoped-for career field, I wanted to believe that volunteering in ministry was a way to get my foot in the door, to be considered for eventual career advancement.  And it turned out that I was working for people who only had their own interests at heart, despite the clear instructions in Philippians 2:4-5.  None of them wanted to help me advance.  At every turn, it was great that I wanted to volunteer, but as soon as I mentioned my desire to find a career in ministry, as soon as I mentioned I’d like to be paid for my efforts, the resistance started.

I started volunteering with the thought of growing whatever I volunteered at.  And when it grew, I wondered about making it a career choice, to continue doing what I was doing but do more.  And instead of doing it out of the goodness of my heart (and that’s not saying much, despite the readers’ desire to deny the fact), I thought there was enough to pay me for the work.  I realized pretty quickly, from being coached not to be myself, from being turned on and verbally attacked, from having what I set up get changed into less effective, or rescheduled to neutralize, or not advertised as had been agreed, or whatever.  I broke. My dreams have broken, and I’ve given up.  By the time my degree was a few years old, the hopelessness started settling in, as the more I tried to get my foot in the door to actually earn enough money for my family to live on, the more I met selfish ass holes who were very happy to have me as a volunteer, but for whatever fucking reason I wasn’t a good fit for a paid staff position.

So, not only did the church people I interviewed with not have my interests at heart, the ones I volunteered for didn’t either, and yesterday I sat doing my job, internally analyzing the ways my current boss has taken me for granted and loves my work as long as I work for woefully inadequate pay, that is less than new people are earning who aren’t trained or experienced, but as soon as I start talking about how I should be earning more than them because she’ll want me to train them, she starts attacking me by saying company policy this and performance review that  as excuses for why she “can’t” do anything to help me advance financially or in my career with this company.  I’m numb.

I was supposed to write last night but instead I got home at nine P.M. from a presentation. I got to present some designs I did for free, to a group of leaders who will use them in support of an organization I’ve been volunteering for.  The designs were well received, so I’ll tweak them and customize the designs and send them to each representative, customized for use by their regional group.  There’s no money in that at all.  There’s no way to get hired because the whole organization is done by volunteer effort.  I’m just contributing.  But if I did hope to get hired in, if they hired and paid people for their time, all my prior experience with trying to volunteer to eventually get hired tells me everyone is the same.

I’m convinced that it doesn’t matter what I do. It’s all pointless effort, like the preacher said, “a chasing after the wind.”  I used to dream that if you work hard people will appreciate it and in return they will take care of you, help you advance, maybe even befriend you, but it doesn’t work like that in my experience.  The people I’ve fallen in with have shown me the darkest side people can show.  The side that takes and takes and takes, and never gives.  They love volunteers, they love underpaying for the value of work, they love how it makes them look good, but as soon as I ask to bask in a little of the glow, as soon as I ask if I can have a little help, a little career advancement, a little measure of success, they turn like a pig I’ve cast my pearls to.  It’s not a question of discernment or wisdom.  Wisdom tells me everyone is exactly the same.  Full of shit.

I had hope, but I don’t hope any more where I am.  Which means I need to get out.  But if I redream, will it really be a different experience or will it be the same as it’s been for me for the last, entirely wasted, 3o years of my life?

Like the lyricist wrote:

“So these are my crimes
I lived and i die
I loved and i fall
I fall and i cry
I laughed and i loved
I loved and i lost
Till the victory is ours
The snakes in the grass”

I keep finding out the people I thought wanted to help me only want to help themselves, they look like sheep but inwardly they are wolves, they look like decent people but when you want a little help they reveal that they are poisonous snakes in the grass.  They bite, they poison, they only want what’s best for themselves, not anyone else.

So tonight, I’m doing some more fundraising for the volunteer organization: fake my smile, put on my best actor’s face, after I do the same fucking thing at work.  Relax, it’s not for a politician or political party.  I already KNOW  they’re all snakes in the grass.

At work, I have to act like everything is fine until I can get the hell out of there.  I don’t even want revenge.  I don’t want to hurt anyone, not even these ass holes who have disappointed me for the last time.  I’ve set aside expectation of anything good.  I expect to get either nothing, or less than I’m worth, for everything I do.   I just want to quit, but I have to find a different job.  I have to fake that my passion isn’t extinguished.  I have to fake sufficiently to get into the next job, just to get away from these abusers.

After fundraising, I’m going to work this weekend to get my house in order and try to help my mum and dad.  But tonight, I might just try to find out if I can make myself feel different.  Anything’s better than the hopeless numbness I felt yesterday, that’s settled on me like an uncomfortable, unfashionable suit.  Not the numbness of Post Mortem, but something that fits a little more comfortably.



What ARE you people thinking?  😉

I saw a few new people have just started following my blog and I just want to say that, since I follow a lot of blogs and I know how time consuming it is just trying to write something, which is why mine is not the best blog by any light year stretch of the imagination.  It’s not even the best by a yoga style stretch, although I confess I think it’s a bit like that famous downward facing dog, and who wants THAT in their face?  Which is another reason to ask the question. Yes, I could have found a horrible picture of a downward facing dog, but, eww.

[insert picture of gargantuan dog looking up with those eyes, you know the ones: cute puppy face, fangs and tongue. He’s going to eat the audience] Sorry, I can’t find the one. You picture it. It’s in your mind somewhere. Isn’t he/she adorable?!

Just trying to write something consumes a hunk of waking hours faster than mould on American cheese. food. product. (warning, product contains no cheese!)  Following takes even more time.  There are articles to read, thoughts to ponder, responses and responses to responses writers responded to, or responses to your responses…the whole thing takes lots of time if you want to do it right.  So I must confess, as if you didn’t already know this, that I don’t do it right.  And you should also trust me, if I EVER figure out how to do a downward facing dog without falling on the dog, you do NOT want to see that.  Your eyes might bleed.  And I don’t even have a dog.

I always miss these landmark events…  Landmark?  Benchmark?  Marky Mark?

EARTH SHATTERING?!!  Which one is the right one to use?  I never learned that one in writer school because, well, I never WENT to writer school, so I just bumble around here trying to amuse myself.  NO, NOT like THAT!!  Shut up!  Anyway the landmark event I’m about to miss is my 200th subscriber to my blog.  And again, I’m just so puzzled, what ARE you people thinking?

It’s fine with me if you want to follow my blog.  Just remember, don’t take anything personal, except for a little piece of my heart, and we’ll all be fine.

Go on and take it.

I was late on 50, I was late on 100, I’m fucking EARLY for 200!  Finally I’m early for something.  But it’s presumptuous of me.

Sorry, I’ve presumed that eventually there will be 200 people who appreciate a certain brand of insanity. I even tried to warn you about myself.  But hey, you’ve got a free will to decide these things for yourselves, I can’t restrain you from clicking that follow button, nor can I get you to not follow me by telling you that I’m like your brain touching the hot stove, or your brain after eating mouldy cheese on potatoes.  

No good will come of it.  No good.  It’s just bad.

It was a toss up.  The coin toss was either “You Know I’m No Good,” by Amy Winehouse, or “Bad to the Bone” by George Thoroughgood and the Destroyers.  “Lonesome George” won.  Sorry Amy.

I may go to the oven in the bunker and bake myself a little celebratory Cake. Perhaps.

50 People Think I’m Interesting

It has come to my attention that more than 50 people think my writing is interesting enough to follow.  Or stalk.  I had two initial reactions:

First:  Good God, people, what are you thinking?!
Second:  Thank you!

Oh, and the third was to thank you all for not following too fast, because I made a bet with a blogtroll that if I had 3K followers by the start of June, I’d quit following two other bloggers I dearly loved.  And I won.  So since I won the bet, if you’ve been lingering, languishing or lurking in the light, not following the darkness that is Deon Mumple, go ahead and sign up now, if you dare.  Or if you’re crazy enough.

And the fourth was the instinct to dig a deeper cavern in my secret underground bunker, which I’ll make the time to do this coming weekend.  There’s no time until then because, well, I’ll be partying with all of you all week.  50 fellow partiers will take time to celebrate, and then of course to recover from the celebrations.  And cake.  Which kind to bake…?  I think maybe a fruity flavor, like orange or lemon or something.  Orange with Chocolate icing sounds just tempting, which leaves one wondering if I have any orange flavored extract in the bunker’s kitchen.  Damned if I’m not all out of Grand Marnier, the better to flavor it with, my dear. (so now I’m the big Bad Wolf, too.  As a Doctor Who fan, and also a fan of fairy tales, that’s pretty damned funny.)  Makes me wish I had a personal chef.   Or just money and space to buy all the ingredients and foods I like.

To the blogtroll, fuck you.  And to any other blogtrolls or wanna-bees, fuck you too.  Find something better to do with your time than to fuck with other bloggers, or you’ll wake up one day and realize three important truths: 1) you’ve been accomplishing less than nothing, 2) you’re a worthless sack of crap, and 3) nobody likes you, not even your mother.  She wants you out of her basement and into your own fucking apartment, you pathetic loser.

This blog is just kind of a lunatic asylum for me.  I’m able to vent my anger in a healthier way than hitting people or yelling at people or having an aneurism, a less expensive way than hitting people with my car.  I’m able to vent my feelings of sadness and manic, and commiserate with my fellow travelers on the road with all its’ ups and downs.  I’ll raise a toast to you all tonight, as I’ve a nearly empty bottle of something that I need to retire.

I can write whatever the hell I want, positive, negative; truth, lies, and bullshit; fiction, culture, complaint, commendation, poetry, profanity, profundity, lunacy, idiocy, randomness, and even religious or counter-religious, and I like it.  I lurk here safely in my bunker and await the end of the world, or the end of Deon.  I expect it’s a toss-up which will come first.

I’ve already confessed, I’m not cooler online. I’m just fucked-up Deon online and probably even more fucked-up offline.  My opinion, maybe I’m just the same Deon in both places, but I do like to write a bit, and it might just be some shit I made up.  It’s fun.  Or cathartic.

That’s the benefit of the blogosphere, the blogiverse, whatever you call this grand thing.  I might enjoy reading yours, or not.  And I can say whatever I need to say.  I used to say I dislike all of you evenly, but I confess, the frosting is thicker in some places on this cake.

Speaking of which, I think I’ll bake a cake tonight.  You’re all invited back to my secret bunker for a slice of it.  But bring two beverages- one for you, and one for me, or I’ll have nothing to toast you with in person, to thank you for your crazed curiosity.  Maybe someone will bring some Grand Marnier.

You encourage me when I’m discouraged, and I hope I do the same.

Thank you for your support.  I’m reading what you’re writing, and I hope you’ll keep on writing it.

~Deon Mumple


Does this happen to the whole family?  My kids are both moody to the point one of them bursts into tears when the smallest thing happens.  She dropped a food dish.  Her “friends” are mean.  He forgot to write down his homework assignment or missed the bus.  The teacher hates me.  I have too many chores and not enough free time. Stuff like that.  Damn.  I’m moody too.

I wish I was more emotionally stable, but fuck me if a James Taylor or Jim Croce ballad (which I dearly love), or even Fleetwood Mac, can make this six foot two, two hundred and something pound, grown man, burst into tears.  I think I’ll pull out some Led Zeppelin or The Doors, something.  Maybe Metallica, but even they sometimes get to me.  What. the. hell…?

And yeah, I drop a dish or a cup and it pisses me off, but I clean it up, and possibly sweep the shards up, and move on after hopefully not hurting myself in the process.  And yeah, “…there never seems to be enough time to do the things you want to do once you find them.”  Shit.  (dabbing a tear away)  And yeah, my “friends” are mean.  Fuck them, that’s why I got a new set of friends who seem to get me here on the blog.  (And if you don’t, well, read another blog if you think this one sucks.  And fuck you if you’re only on here to troll and discourage.  It might suck, which means you don’t have to read it, and you’re an ass hole if you’re here to tell me it sucks.)  I didn’t have time to write my blog because I’m too fucking busy with housework.  Or I have to run an errand.  Or I have to do anything other than sip something libatious and be to myself.  Shit.  I hate when that happens, there’s no stress relief in sight.  And sorry to tell you this, kids, but the teacher hates me, too.

What we need are coping mechanisms.  I’ve got a long history with this.  But it took me forever to learn if your friends, church people (frequently the worst), boss, work ass-hole-ciates… associates, it just came out that way, neighbor, stranger on the street, are mean to you, you can give them an enormous “FUCK YOU” and move on.  God I wish I had the cash sometimes to tell an employer that.  For now I’ll just reserve it and wait patiently until the opportunity comes along, or until my situation improves and I don’t want to say it any more.  Either are possible.

My kids are too young to learn the fine, Scottish martial art of Fa-KYU!  I think I’ll wait until they’re in college and teach them that.  For now I hug the crying one because they need a hug; I might even cry along with them, and tell them they shouldn’t associate with the playground bully, and they need to try to at best, respect, or at worst, report, the teacher’s actions and decisions in the class, since they need to graduate.

It took me a long time to learn it isn’t the end of the world when the mower doesn’t start, or something breaks, because just, shit falls apart and you can’t do shit about it except repair or replace if and when you can, or do without.  Still feels like the end of the world though.  Because sometimes it sucks.

I think Led Zeppelin AND The Doors AND Metallica and maybe even RATM (“Fuck You, I won’t do what you tell me!”) will be on my playlist tonight while I do the fucking chores, and maybe, just maybe, my kids will be strong enough emotionally to do their fucking homework without breaking.  Believe me, I felt the same way and wanted to cry enduring MR. FUCKHEAD’s Algebra class with all the hours of repetition, but to this day I can do that shit in my head.  And maybe, just maybe, I can get them to help with the house shit after I prepare and feed them dinner.  Because sometimes I feel the same way I did in algebra about washing all the dishes and taking out the trash, and vacuuming the floor:  why do I have to keep doing the same shit again, and again, and again?!  I don’t think I’ll share the rebellious RATM song with them just yet.  And if my wife doesn’t want to get along, I’ll just play “She Fucking Hates Me (, la, la, la, la!)” at the top of my headphone volume until I can laugh about it and try again.

I’m done crying, “Sweet Baby James.”  Don’t call me, “Operator. (Just forget about this call.)”

So, that’s several of my personal coping mechanisms.  I like to cook, as I find creating something good is a stress relief.  Plus I like to eat.  Thank God for my kids, because I can’t possibly eat all of that or I’d weigh 500 lbs and be unable to move.  Mangia, my darlings, MANGIA!!   I like to write.  I like to write a lot.  I can escape in characters, fiction, ranting, even working through poetry formulas to write what I think might be a good one. (Damn, Mr. Fuckhead, is poetry mathematical too?) I can also find escape through rage-expressive music, and sometimes even James Taylor, et al., can help me when “nothing is goin’ right.”  I can escape through (frequently dark) humor, escape through swearing, through immature name calling (sorry, “Mr. Fuckhead,” you know who you are.), and other silliness.  I like to clean, still, if I get started, in spite of the repetition of it.  If I get started cleaning I get happy with the progress and the clean and the smell of fucking BLEACH! God I love that.  I can sometimes escape through delegation, or ignoring the shitlist, I mean chore list, or just gutting through it on my own and dealing with whatever I can in the time permitted.

Quick, before, you know, it’s the end of the fucking world or some other shit falls apart.  Thank God for Scottish Martial Arts and for laughing along with Mike Myers and others, too.  God, I do love silliness.  Wait.  What are YOUR coping mechanisms?  What are YOUR favorite angry/happy/whatever songs?  What movies make you laugh or improve your mood?  What are your favorite foods/recipes?  “Inquiring minds want to know.”  Plus, maybe it’ll help me.

C’mon already!  DISH!

Encouraging Thunder Award? It’s My First Time, Be Gentle With Me!

With any and all sarcasm and the harshest of criticisms directed squarely at myself, I, Deon Mumple,  pestered another blogger until she graciously nominated me for a writing award.  Fuck me, I really am annoying.  She was my first, and she was most gentle about it.  My award is the prestigious and pretentious “’Encouraging Thunder Award,’ which exists either to promote flatulence, or to make Thor feel better about himself,” bestowed by fellow blogger, talented writer and all around beautiful person blahpolar who writes from her royal throne at  If she hadn’t nominated me I’d have done 2 things:  1) gone about my business as usual, or 2) nominated her if someone else gave me permission to nominate her, but I now have a third, and more nefarious scheme in mind for her…

I’ve been warned before about these awards.  There are requirements, at least one of which I cannot wait to fulfill.  It might not thrill the presenter, but I mean to hold her to this, and I do mean “hold her.”  She knows what she said.  It excites me that she has required the task, and it shall be my mission in life henceforth, now and until I fulfill it and the rest of the requisite Herculean Labours.  But I really hope it’s exciting for her as well, because after all I do have a starving ego to feed.  Plus, I bet she’s hot.  I’m a bit nervous about it I confess, because when you go trying to feed a starving ego you need people to affirm your lust for …ego…food, and not tell you to “Kindly do me the honor to fuck off and die, you pathetic loser ass hole.”

Featured image

What you can do with the Encouraging Thunder award:
Post it on your blog
Grant other bloggers the award.
What you can’t do with the Encouraging Thunder award:
Abuse or misuse the logo
Claim that it’s your own handmade logo.

What you should do after receiving the Encouraging Thunder award: (squeal with delight, phone all friends, drink champagne from a lesbian)

Enjoy the award. (exploit groupies scandalously)

At least give thanks via comments and likes and/or mention the blogger who gave you the award.

Mention your purpose in blogging.

Give them all love by visiting their blogs and showing some appreciation.

P.S. You do not have to accept the award. It is entirely up to you. At least this one doesn’t have a ton of questions to answer and none to make up.

Is this how a person is supposed to accept a blogging award?  It seemed right somehow.  I’ll squeal with delight just as soon as I drink my champagne from a lesbian, I’m choosing to receive that from my presenter according to her already prescribed method:  by osculation, such a lovely thing.  And maybe she’ll squeal too.

What’s my purpose in blogging?  What’s anyone’s purpose in life?  I want to get rich, bitches!  But I want to do it my way, so please, all you success bloggers who made your millions already and you want to sell me your secrets in three easy lessons with three easy payments, shut the hell up and keep it to yourselves.

I like to write.  I want to write for fun in a realm where no one knows a damn thing about me, and you can’t find me because I’m hiding in my bunker.

I also needed an emotional outlet where I could love and encourage smart people and hate and discourage fucking idiots.

* Smart people:  people who think, people who are still learning, people
who know they don’t have all the answers and are willing to search dil-
igently for them and not lord their existing knowledge over other people, etc.
People who are logical enough to follow a thread of reasoning, either to its’
illogical, frayed ends, or its’ solid spool of truth.
**Fucking idiots:  criminals, child abusers, spouse/partner abusers, evil dick-
tators, rapists (yeah, you get your own category, you and the abusers), pigs,
thugs, wanna-be’s, plagiarists, people who don’t think, people who assume
they know more than I do and who won’t listen to reasonable dialogue.  I
recognize them because I used to be a fucking idiot.  Sometimes I still am.
But at least I’m trying to listen.
And think.

Shut up, I’m trying to think!  Wait, am I encouraging my own thunder or discouraging it?  Maybe a little of both.  I need to work this out, give me a minute, bitches! (I use the term to refer to all sentient genders, both galactic and intergalactic, so unless you understand it’s intended as chummy, shut up.  If you dare to be offended, fuck off and find another blog to read, there are some really fucking good ones out there that I swear are better than mine.  Troll those guys; they like that shit.)  And, as I always try to express myself in the most genteel of manners, it’s likely no one would notice, but my purpose also involves emotional venting and also attempting to be funny and chummy, by the use of angry, or friendly, occasionally rare or generally prolific swearing when I feel like it.  I also want to encourage good writers to keep writing, and encourage average and poor writers to get better at writing, which means they have to keep practicing.  I’ll be the judge of your writing, trust me, but also trust me to keep my damn mouth shut about it if I don’t like it.  Nobody, especially me, likes a fucking critic.

Nominees?  I haven’t blogged very long so I don’t really have a following as obnoxious as myself.  Hmmm.  I’ll figure out how to put the picture in here and then pick people.  There, I think I got that right.  I promise I’m not checking out your fine asses as the basis for nomination.  Although I’m sure they are fine.  Honest.  I’m married, and my wife’s ass is the only one I really want.  to. check. out.  VERY FREQUENTLY.  In fact, can I just stay home with my wife today?  Because, DAAAAAMMMNNN,  she’s awesome.  But I think osculatory champagne served from a fine vessel can’t be passed up.  It may be immoral, but it’s an immoral imperative. Sorry hon, don’t be jealous, it’s all about the experience.  How many times in one’s life does one get that kind of opportunity?

OK, Distracted there, back to my top 5 nominees, who are:

Du, Du, (how did I discover Swedish blogs over here across the pond?), You, (because … Laughing Dragon! and because you’re following me!), You, You, and You.  Yeah I know, more than 5, who can stop when there are so many more good blogs out there.  I’m just excited to feel like I’m a part of the community, especially since I got an award!  And, You.  And You.  Oh, who am I kidding, I might just love ALL of you.  Don’t get big-headed, even you nominees- I also might hate you and just be keeping my opinion to myself.

Did she really say I had a fine ass?  Let me reread the comment thread on again. Daaaammmnnnnn!   I’m ready for that champagne now!  Let the celebration commence!  Can I have another sip?  Leave the bottle!

Do my links generate a pingback, or do I have to do something differently to tell these people I like them…  or not?  Please let me know if I did it wrong, but I hope this worked.  As I said, I’m new to this!  Thank you for your gentleness since it was my first time; it’s been a wonderful experience.  Garçon?  (I mean “wait-person,” not “boy!” so step off if you stepped on.)  Garçon! Another bottle of champagne, please?

Blogging Challenges: I Want to Join the Party

I watched as NaPoWriMo came and went, and enjoyed some poetry.  And tolerated some, hey we all try and some people like our stuff and some people don’t and that’s why we’re all here, just to see if we can write something that people think is good.  I say, keep trying and if anyone criticizes what you do without offering constructive tips (and without bragging about how good their own shit is, please I don’t want to hear about yours because I need help with mine!), tell them to shut the fuck up.  I’m going to read and enjoy, or read and dislike, but I’m keeping my mouth shut unless I really like something.  And that’s if I notice it because these emails come pretty fast, and I’m a baby blogger.

I probably can’t write a poem every day, especially not a good one.  But I really like reading poetry, even if I judge it not to my taste.  I really like writing poetry too and I’d like a writing suggestion.  I know F is for Free Verse and H is for Haiku, S for Sonnet, etc.  I would like someone to list poetry forms in alphabetical order, from A to Z, with at least one poetry form for each letter.  I found a great poetry website that has almost reached that goal, skipping J and K, U, W, X, Y and Z.  Sadly, although the website offers 55 perfectly good poetry forms, they are missing letters from my OCD sequential NEED for complete completion.

I don’t even think I can write a good blog every day, much less a poem.  But I’ll try,  skip a day now and then.  I’ll write something if I can get inspired or have a whim.

I watched as the Alphabet challenge came and went, and didn’t even have a clue where to start or end, so I didn’t do that one either.  Are there blogging challenges for every month?  Where would I go to find those?

Please comment with suggestions.

And now the random oddity of the day (hey there’s an idea for a blogging challenge!) :  Ever heard of earworm?  For some reason “The [fucking] CHICKEN DANCE” is in my head and I can’t get it out.